Take Me Out to the Ballgame

When I was a kid, the Pittsburgh Pirates were amazing.

April 30, 2012|Nick Jacobs

They were truly the best thing that could have happened to any kid from Western Pennsylvania. To this day, the players names come rolling off my tongue as if I were a 12-year-old boy again: Roberto Clemente, Dick Groat, Bill Mazeroski, Bob Friend, Bill Verdon, Elroy Face, Harvey Haddix, Smoky Burgess, Don Hoak, Mickey Vernon and Bob Skinner.

Those guys were just a few of the ones that I remember from those days. I was a wide-eyed, baseball-loving kid, and they were my heroes.

My buddies and I dreamed of being big-time baseball stars as our way out of our little, post-war, high unemployment end of the beehive-coke-making era bit of geography in Southwestern Pa. Little did we know that those were still the glory days of the economy in that area with thriving glass factories, railroads and a logging business that was running strong.

Every day in the summer, the nine of us would meet at the local ballfield with our black tape-covered baseball, our S&H Green Stamp baseball gloves, and at least two baseball bats.

Dale Cable had one and Roy Fuller had the other one. Just like my glove, those bats probably came from their folks collecting some reward gimmick. Maybe it was coupons from Jewell Tea or TV or Plaid Stamps?

We collected lots of things in those days that eventually paid off. Unlike air miles, which continuously are devalued and made impossible to use, those stamps and coupons were worth something. It took thousands of them, but at least we knew that the catalog was accurate.

It was probably significant that, until I was a junior in high school, the hour drive to Pittsburgh was never once made to a Pirates game by our family. I’m sure it was because we just didn’t have the money to make the trip. After all, radio and television worked just fine. We knew that the baseball field was in Oakland, and we knew that it would be amazing to go there, but gas was 31 cents a gallon, and the tires on dad’s car were balder than the spot on the back of my head.

The lack of direct contact with the players didn’t stop us from being rabid Pirates fans. We would not miss a chance to listen to or watch a Pirates game. Even the away games in California were part of the experience. Many a night I’d force myself to stay awake until 1 o’clock in the morning just to hear that last out in the ninth inning.

It’s probably time now for a full disclosure. My abilities as a baseball player were, to say the least, somewhat limited. In other words, I kinda stunk.

Don’t get me wrong, not unlike those professional golfer guys who wear those matching outfits, I looked great. If no one ever saw me play, they could be convinced that I looked like a real sandlot ball player.

Seriously, I had that look, minus the side chew. But when it came time for amazing fielding plays, great hits, fast base running, well, let’s just say that I was usually one of the last guys to get picked. Because we had no left-handed batters on either team, I was always selected to play right field. In six years of sandlot, I remember about three baseballs coming anywhere near me in right field. Truthfully, the quasi-rejection of being picked in the last round of the draft never thwarted my enthusiasm.

We didn’t know anything about hydrating, suntan lotion, or hygiene. We washed our hands before supper. No Purel hand sanitizer, no endless bottles of water, no Coppertone. We just played, slid into the bases, chewed sugar-filled bubblegum, got dirty, and had fun.